Striptease Gone Wild

Chapter 1

The stage lights hit different when you're full. They used to feel warm, almost flattering, catching the sweat on my collarbone and the curve of my hips. Now they feel like interrogation beams, pinning me in place while the crowd below decides what I'm worth.

I'm on my second song and already winded. The pole is cool against my palm, grounding me, but my belly hangs heavy over the waistband of my sequined bottoms, and I can feel the weight of every ounce I've packed on in these two weeks. Two weeks of stuffing myself before every shift. Two weeks of walking onto the stage with a gut so tight I can barely bend.

And I love it.

The first note of "Santa Baby" croaks from the speakers-ironic, given the season. December's chill seeps through the club's thin walls, but the heat of thirty bodies packed around the stage keeps the air thick and sour with beer and cologne. I sway my hips, let my belly roll with the motion, and watch the row of regulars at the rail.

Marcus is front and center tonight. He's a trucker with a salt-and-pepper beard and a laugh that sounds like gravel crunching. He's also the one who started the betting pool.

"Look at that gut, boys," he calls out, loud enough for the whole club to hear. "Two weeks ago she was just fat. Now she's pregnant with Christmas dinner."

Laughter ripples through the crowd. I bite my lip, grinding slow against the pole, and let my hand slide down to rest on the swell of my stomach. The sequins catch the light. So does the new red line just beside my bellybutton-a fresh stretch mark, angry and thin, like a crack in porcelain.

Marcus sees it. His eyes narrow, then widen.

"Holy shit, you got your first one," he says, pointing. "Right there. The little red fucker. That's the mark of a woman who's committed."

I feel my cheeks flush. The heat spreads down my neck, across my chest. My nipples harden against the cheap fabric of my bra, and I know there's a damp patch forming on the pole from my inner thighs.

"Five bucks says she gains another ten pounds by Christmas," someone yells from the back.

"Ten bucks says she can't walk by New Year's."

"Twenty says she needs a wheelchair before February."

The bids fly. I keep moving, keep swaying, because stopping means thinking about what I'm doing, and thinking might break the spell. My hips trace lazy circles. My belly jiggles with every beat. The stretch mark pulses like a second heartbeat.

Marcus leans forward, his forearms on the rail, and lowers his voice. The noise of the club dims around us. "I'll bring you something special next shift, sweetheart. A real meal. You eat it on stage, right here, and I'll tip you double what the house takes."

My mouth goes dry. "What kind of meal?"

"The kind that'll crack that stretch mark wide open."

The offer hangs in the air, heavy and intoxicating. I should say no. I should laugh it off, shake my head, keep dancing. But my body has already answered-I can feel the slick between my legs, the flutter in my stomach that has nothing to do with fullness.

"Bring it," I hear myself say.

The crowd erupts. Someone slaps the rail. A whistle cuts through the noise. I finish my set on autopilot, collecting my singles with trembling fingers, and retreat to the dressing room with the taste of anticipation on my tongue.

The next shift, Marcus is true to his word.

He arrives with a brown paper bag that smells like grease and salt. The other regulars part for him like he's carrying a trophy. He sets the bag on the edge of the stage, right where I'll crawl to collect tips, and steps back with his arms crossed.

"Two double cheeseburgers," he announces. "Fries. A milkshake. And a slice of that pecan pie they sell at the diner down the street."

My stomach growls. I haven't eaten since breakfast-I've been saving my appetite for exactly this. The DJ cues up a slow, grinding track, and I lower myself to my knees on the padded stage, my belly resting on my thighs.

"Show them how a real woman eats," Marcus says.

I open the bag.

The smell hits me first-hot beef, melted cheese, the sharp bite of pickles. My fingers close around the first burger, and the wrapper crinkles in my grip. The crowd has gone quiet. Every eye is on me, watching my hand, my mouth, the way my chest heaves as I bring the burger to my lips.

The first bite is heaven.

Grease runs down my chin. I don't wipe it away. I chew slowly, deliberately, letting the taste fill my mouth, and I watch Marcus watch me. His eyes are fixed on my throat as I swallow. On the way the burger disappears bite by bite. On the way my belly presses harder against my thighs with every mouthful.

By the time I finish the first burger, there's applause.

"That's it, honey," a woman calls from the bar. "Eat up. You've got a long way to go."

I reach for the second burger. My fingers are slick with grease. The bread is soft, almost falling apart, and I have to catch a falling piece of lettuce with my tongue. Someone cheers. Someone else throws a five-dollar bill onto the stage.

The milkshake is next. Thick. Cold. Strawberry. I suck it through the straw, and the pressure in my stomach builds, a dull ache that pushes against my ribs. I can feel the seam of my sequined top straining. The stretch mark beside my bellybutton tingles, like it's trying to remember how to split.

Marcus leans in. "One more bite," he says. "Just one more."

I finish the milkshake. The pie comes out of the bag, still warm, and I eat it with my fingers, crumbling the crust between my teeth. The pecan filling is so sweet it hurts. My stomach is a drum, tight and hot, and I can barely breathe.

But I don't stop.

When the last crumb is gone, I hold up the empty bag and shake it. The crowd roars. Marcus throws a wad of bills onto the stage-twenties, all of them-and I scoop them up with greasy hands, stuffing them into my garter.

"Next shift," he says, his voice low and rough. "I'll bring more."

I nod, because my throat is too full of food and shame and joy to speak.

One year later, the stage looks different.

They had to reinforce it after I hit 300. The plywood creaks under my weight now, and management installed a chair-a wide, padded throne, bolted to the floor-so I don't have to stand for my sets. The betting board hangs behind the bar, updated weekly, with my current weight in bold red marker.

365 pounds.

The number stares back at me every time I walk past. 365. One pound for every day of the year, almost. The other girls have started gaining too-Mandy, a blonde who used to mock me, is up to 230. Tina, the youngest, just cracked 200. But I'm the star. I'm the one they come to see.

The chair groans as I settle into it tonight. My belly rests on my lap, soft and heavy, spilling over the armrests. My thighs are thick enough to press together even with the chair's width. My arms jiggle when I reach for the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the DJ announces. "The moment you've been waiting for. Your reigning champion-Bella the Belly Queen-with another weigh-in special."

The crowd hoots. Marcus is in the front row, older now, grayer, but still grinning. He's brought a new regular with him-a younger guy, maybe mid-thirties, with hungry eyes.

"You're looking full tonight, Bella," Marcus calls. "What'd you eat today?"

I lean into the microphone. "Three breakfast burritos. A dozen donuts. Two pizzas. And a gallon of ice cream."

The crowd whistles. The younger guy leans toward Marcus, whispers something, and Marcus laughs.

"He says you're the fattest thing he's ever seen on a stage," Marcus translates. "He wants to know if you can get fatter."

I smile, slow and wide. "Ask him if he's got the cash to find out."

The younger guy pulls out a roll of bills-hundreds, from the look of it-and slaps it on the rail. "I want to feed her myself," he says. "Right here. Right now."

Marcus looks at me. The room goes quiet.

And I feel that familiar heat bloom between my thighs, the ache that only comes when I'm about to cross a line I didn't know existed.

"Bring it," I say.

But this time, the words taste different. Heavier. Like I'm signing a contract I can't read.